Page 25 of Awoken
With trembling hands, she reached up and unfastened the brooch at her breast—MacKinnon’s gift. Drew had made her wear it for the ceremony. Bitterness flooded her mouth, and she flung the offending object across the chamber. It thudded against the wall, yet to her disappointment the brooch didn’t shatter.
Just like the beast who was intent on wedding her, she couldn’t rid herself of it that easily.
Tears welled then, blurring her vision and making her throat cramp. When they’d brought her to Dunan, she had thought this nightmare couldn’t get any worse—and yet with each moment, she felt as if she were passing through Dante’s nine circles of hell, with each level being worse than the last.
“Ye do realize that no priest is going to want to replace Father Athol … not once they discover what happened to him.”
“What do I care?” Duncan MacKinnon drained his wine goblet and set it down on the window-sill with a thud.
“Dunan needs a priest, Duncan … if ye slay them, this broch will get a reputation as a Godless place.”
MacKinnon turned from the window, his gaze settling upon his sister’s proud face. The woman had followed him, uninvited, into his solar, and now proceeded to lecture him.
“What’s this?” he murmured. “I thought ye had no time for religion? Didn’t our mother sour ye of it, as she did me?”
Drew’s mouth pursed. “I’m not interested in spending hours on my knees praying for forgiveness, if that’s what ye mean? However, Father Athol did much good here. The folk of Dunan loved him. They will be upset about this.”
Duncan’s mouth twisted into a sneer. Scooping up his goblet, he strode to the sideboard and poured himself another.
A few yards away, sitting before the glowing hearth, Bran whined. The wolfhound had picked up on its master’s dangerous mood and was giving him a wide berth. However, Drew wasn’t being so prudent.
“I care not what the folk of Dunan think,” he said after he’d taken another gulp of wine. “They should take this as a lesson … of what happens to those who defy me.”
Drew moved a few hesitant steps toward him. Closer up, he could see the strain on her face; usually his sister appeared ageless, but today he could see the fine lines around her mouth and eyes. “Leanna will never bend to yer will,” she said after a pause. “If ye wed her, it will mean misery for ye both … surely ye can see that?”
Duncan drained his second wine and set the goblet down upon the sideboard. He then approached his sister, looming over her.
“Ye have gotten mouthy of late, Drew … it begins to vex me.”
Drew raised her chin, angling her head up so that she held his gaze. “I have always vexed ye,” she reminded him with an arch look. “But in the past, ye have sometimes heeded my counsel.”
“Have I?” Duncan looked his sister up and down dismissively. “Ye think yerself cunning and adept at manipulating men … yet ye couldn’t get Gavin MacNichol to do yer bidding, could ye?”
Drew’s mouth thinned, her eyes narrowing. MacKinnon knew he’d hit a raw nerve there, for his sister had been taken with the MacNichol clan-chief and shocked to learn he’d wed another. However, when Drew replied, her voice was controlled. “MacNichol was in love with someone else,” she pointed out coldly. “But that’ll never be yer problem, Duncan. Ye are incapable of love. Ye are incapable of caring for anyone beside that damn dog of yers.”
Ross climbed the steps to the broch, barely acknowledging the guard who greeted him near the doors. His mood was dark and tension had settled upon his neck and shoulders. He’d gone looking for Carr, but his friend had already departed for Talasgair upon a swift courser.
It would take him at least two days, before he returned with a priest to do MacKinnon’s bidding. And in the meantime, the only person Ross trusted was absent from the broch.
Perhaps it was for the best—in Ross’s current state of mind, Carr wasn’t the ideal audience. He’d already been too frank with him of late.
Inside the broch, he crossed the entrance hall, and was about to enter the Great Hall beyond, when a figure on the stairs caught his eye.
Lady Drew MacKinnon halted, her slender frame tensing.
Ross’s gaze immediately went to the angry red swelling upon her left cheekbone. However, the lady didn’t lift a hand to it. Her grey eyes glittered as she watched him. “Campbell,” she greeted him coolly. “Join me in my solar, please … I wish to speak to ye.”
12
He’s Gone Too Far
ROSS FOLLOWED LADY Drew into the women’s solar.
The chamber stood in stark contrast to the clan-chief’s. The latter was a purely masculine space, with a stag’s head mounted above the hearth, deerskins covering the cold flagstone floor, and tapestries of battles upon the wall. But the women’s solar—not a room he usually frequented—smelled of drying herbs. Soft embroidered cushions dotted the room, and sheepskin rugs covered the floor. A great loom, with a half-finished tapestry upon it, sat by the open window.
Lady Drew, her back ramrod straight, walked to a low table, where she poured herself a goblet of wine. Ross noted that her hands were trembling slightly. He tensed, surprised; he’d never seen MacKinnon’s sister lack composure. The woman had the warmth and vulnerability of iron. And yet, this afternoon, there were serious cracks in the façade.
Lady Drew was upset, and she wasn’t trying to hide it.
